In moments, the wedding march rang out through the church and her father looked at her.
“Are you ready?”
Nerves and excitement fluttered through her, but she knew…knew without a shadow of a doubt. Always had. “Yes.”
“Are you sure? I can get you out of here in an instant if you don’t want to marry him.”
Forever mine. “I want him, Father.”
He patted her hand and walked her down the aisle and handed her to Demetri.
Demetri took her hand and drew her up the steps to the altar, leaned down and whispered.
“You have that look in your eyes.”
She smiled and whispered as they both turned to the priest. “I have one more postcard.”
About Elsa Holland
Elsa Holland writes lush, sensual stories set in Victorian England. They skirt the edge of Gothic eroticism and dark romanticism giving them a rich, moody feel (which has nothing to do with the bowl of chocolates at the side of her keyboard or the pictures she chooses for her desktop).
Her heroines walk fearlessly through the dark and her heroes are exactly the kind of men you want to find there.
Elsa lives with her Viking-stock husband and her follow-you-everywhere dog, in semi-tropical Queensland, Australia.
If you enjoyed Georgie and Demetri's story, browse more from Elsa’s ‘Velvet Basement’ series, on Amazon
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Mistletoe Kisses
by Elise Marion
Chapter 1
Dorset, England
21st December, 1856
Pressing his forehead against the frigid window, Maxwell Davies took a deep breath. He released it with a long, low sigh, prying his lids open as a misty cloud began to spread, heating the cold glass. Nearly noon, and already his mother’s guests had begun to arrive. Shortly, he would be expected to emerge from his chambers and greet them. Or rather, be flaunted before them like some sort of obscene circus attraction.
Observe, he could hear his mother saying in her haughty, cultured tones, the shriveled shell of what used to be my son. See how the deep lines of grief have permanently notched themselves into his face so we can hardly stand to look at him? See how vacant the eyes are, as if the very flame of his soul has been snuffed out? See how his mouth hardly moves, as if he’s forgotten how to speak?
Gritting his teeth, he pounded a fist against the casement. It sent a sting rattling up his arm and into his shoulder, bringing him back to reality. His mother’s Christmas house party would only last a week, during which he had promised to appease her. It might be the last time he had to spend in extended company with his family for a long while. Following the New Year, he would strike out on his own, inhabiting the comfortable home he’d purchased for himself in Cornwall.
After all, he had only intended to remain within the ancestral home for a few weeks while recuperating from his injury. However, his own intentions had meant nothing in the end, and the whims of fate and his traitorous body had held him here for nearly a year. He’d suffered pain, fever, and illness for months, but worse than that, he’d endured the weight of his family’s pity and wariness. They weren’t sure what to do with him now that he’d returned from war broken and so unlike himself. And he couldn’t be the young man they once knew and loved. He didn’t know how to laugh, smile, and tell ribald jokes that made his brother guffaw, his sisters blush, and his mother shake her head at him. He didn’t know how to drink wassail, sing Christmas songs, or play parlor games in celebration of the holiday, when he had only just begun forcing himself out of bed on a regular basis. He had no notion of what happiness looked like anymore, when his senses were forever imprinted with the sights, sounds, and smells of death.
Even so, he’d resolved to give it his best attempt. He would try not to cast a dark shadow over the gathering, and attend his mother’s guests like a dutiful host. He’d get through every painful moment of it while counting the days until his departure for Cornwall. Then, his family would be freed from the burden of worrying over him. While they meant well, he often noticed the way they avoided prolonged contact with him, never seeming to know what to do or say, or how to avoid staring at the site of his injury. It didn’t matter that his clothes kept it neatly hidden away; they knew it was there.
It would be best for them all if he left Hazelwood Manor, tucking himself away like a cracked vase—out of sight and forgotten. His family might make a few attempts to look in on him, fulfilling some unspoken familial obligation, but over time, he expected those visits to come fewer and farther between before ceasing altogether. He hadn’t determined whether that would make him any happier, but he drew relief from knowing that his days of appearing at house parties would be at an end.
Thank the Lord for small favors.
He watched as a steady stream of carriages rounded the circular drive, pulling up before the front steps one by one. From the drawing room that had been converted into his sickroom—helping him avoid the trial of stairs—he had an unobstructed view of the arrivals.
Footmen dressed in festive red Christmas livery stepped forward to unload the guests’ belongings, while the gentlemen assisted their female companions to the ground. Then came the predictable reaction of those visiting the manor for the first time—the tipped-back heads, wide eyes, and open mouths. Added to the opulence of the country home’s Italianate style was the light dusting of powdery snow on the peaks of the rooftop as well as the house grounds. Candles shone from every front-facing window, illuminating miniature arrangements of greenery in a display hinting at the grandeur to be found inside. His mother never passed up an opportunity to flaunt the family’s wealth or her penchant for decorating.
No one seemed to notice him haunting one of the first floor windows like a ghost. At least, no one let on that they could see him … until she paused just before ascending the front steps. At first, he only noticed the jaunty black feather curving from the top of a winter bonnet of burgundy velvet, and a matching cape falling in soft folds over the voluminous skirts of a travel ensemble. Then, instead of tipping her head back to take in the architecture, she swiveled it in his direction. Her proximity to the window offered him a full view of a heart-shaped face framed by that soft velvet bonnet. If it weren’t for the fresh snow brightening the landscape, he might not have noticed the rich hue of her skin—a tawny golden brown. The dark pools of her eyes trained on him and remained, penetrating through the thick pane of glass.
He gripped the window casement and drew in a deep breath, lungs burning as he momentarily forgot how to breathe. The spread of her skirts around her, like the petals of some winter-blooming flower, caught and held his attention. The slope of her jaw into a pointed chin captivated him. Most of all, her unwavering gaze ensnared him. For what seemed like an endless amount of time, he stared at the woman with a feeling in his chest he could not describe. He couldn’t make out her expression from here, nor any distinct facial features. He only knew that the sight of her sent something resounding through him like the crash of a gong, piercing his skin and penetrating him right to his center. Where at first he’d been reluctant to greet the guests, he now found himself curious about this woman.
He recognized a few people from his position at the window, but could not place this one. Which meant it was someone he’d never met, a person who hadn’t known him before Crimea. Would she look upon him and see an empty shell, or would her ignorance of the man he’d once been cause her to see him differently? He hadn’t interacted with anyone outside of his family since his return, and dreaded coming to face to face with any of his old acquaintances. Nevertheless, curiosity had him wondering what he’d find in this woman’s eyes when she looked at him.
Maxwell couldn’t even tell himself why it mattered when he was all too aware of how unfit he was to be in anyone’s
company. He only knew it mattered enough that when she lowered her head and continued into the house, he took up his walking stick and strode toward his door with only a hint of a limp, determination in every step.
Chapter 2
Josephine Brewer entered the massive foyer of Hazelwood Manor to find a gracefully-aged woman awaiting them in a reception dress of navy blue wool with white lace edging the neckline. Her statuesque figure was further emphasized by two massive, curving staircases leading to the upper levels of the house, and a chandelier blazing with dozens of candles overhead. The large entrance hall was bedecked with garlands of greenery, holly, and bright red ribbon, while more of the same framed the doorways leading into the receiving rooms yawning to their left and right. The candles reflected off gilt mirrors and veined marble floors, reminding visitors of the wealth of the Davies family.
Extending her arms in a gracious gesture, the woman smiled. Her performance smacked of practiced charm, and Josephine didn’t doubt that their hostess had gone to great lengths to ensure she stood perfectly framed by the staircase and festive decor.
“Adelaide, darling,” she called out, skirts swishing around her legs as she approached. “How good it is to see you again!”
Josephine hung back as her stepmother greeted her friend, Lady Esther Davies, Countess of Windthorne.
Could Adelaide even be considered her stepmother? The woman had never shown her an ounce of maternal affection, but had sheltered and provided for Josephine after the death of her father—which was far more than she could have hoped for. Still, it was never more apparent that she was not truly part of the family she lived with than when she glanced in the mirror. Brown skin, full-bodied features, and thick, curling hair would always set her apart, like a piece of china that did not match the rest of the set.
“Esther, it has been too long,” Adelaide replied, bussing Lady Windthorne’s cheek before turning to indicate the young woman standing at her side. “You remember my daughter, Violet?”
Lady Windthorne pressed a hand to her bosom in an exaggerated motion of shock. “Goodness, child. How you’ve grown since I saw you last! And how lovely you’ve become. Adelaide, she’s the most darling thing!”
Violet executed a flawless curtsy, the olive green folds of her skirts fanning decorously around her. “Thank you, Lady Windthorne. You are most kind.”
Josephine wasn’t fooled by the feigned modesty of her stepsister. Violet was beautiful, and there wasn’t a soul who didn’t know it—including Violet herself. With inky black hair and velvety brown eyes, she had been made in their father’s image. Adelaide had taught her to flaunt her looks to her advantage, and only a year after her debut, the girl boasted a slew of suitors from London to Scotland, all of whom tripped over themselves in her presence. However, they were nothing more than practice for the most illustrious prize of all: Lord Thaddeus Davies, future Earl of Windthorne. Adelaide had had her eye on the eldest son of her friend for years, and it just so happened that Lord Davies remained unattached and Violet was finally old enough to become a matrimonial prospect.
Which was why Adelaide had leapt at the chance to join the family for their annual Christmas house party. Nothing would have stopped her from snaring a future earl for Violet, not even the necessity of dragging Josephine along.
“And who is this … young lady?” Lady Windthorne asked, giving Josephine a startled, wide-eyed glance.
She looked upon Josephine as if she’d never seen a Negro before, despite the fact that at least four of the footmen greeting guests outside had skin as dark, or darker, than hers.
“My stepdaughter, Miss Josephine Brewer,” Adelaide replied, the pleasantness in her tone fading a bit as she waved a dismissive hand in Josephine’s direction.
Josephine made her own curtsy, noting that the countess’ smile grew strained.
“Welcome to Hazelwood Manor,” she said, before turning back to Adelaide, effectively dismissing Josephine. “You must be famished after your journey. Please, join the other guests for refreshment while your rooms are readied.”
Another small army of footmen approached to divest the women of their effects, and Josephine smoothed a hand over her hair after surrendering her bonnet, cape, and gloves. Then, she followed her stepmother and stepsister in silence as they were guided to the appointed drawing room.
Josephine kept her head high and her mouth closed, never forgetting that she was not wanted here. Adelaide only brought her along because Lady Windthorne had written to her, lamenting that they were one lady short for the party. God forbid the countess throw a party in which men and women could not be paired off in even numbers. As usual, Josephine had been virtually forgotten until her stepmother thought of some use for her.
“You’re hardly a lady,” Adelaide had said after informing Josephine she would join them for the party. “But you will do. Remain silent and try not to embarrass me.”
It didn’t matter that Josephine had been privileged to have the same governess as Violet, that she’d attended one of the best schools for girls in England, or that she was accomplished with watercolors as well as the pianoforte—none of it was enough to stop her from serving as a constant embarrassment for the woman who had raised her. However, neither of them had been given given much of a choice, and so they were stuck with one another until Josephine married—which didn’t seem likely—or reached her twenty-first birthday.
They were ushered through a long gallery filled with works of fine art, then through a pillared archway into a massive drawing room meant for entertaining. Two large hearths worked to warm the room, which was filled with guests mingling with other members of the Davies family. Tea services and silver towers holding an array of confections sat on various surfaces, while more of the red-clad footmen wove their way through the crowd, tending to the visitors.
In the midst of it all stood Lord Thaddeus Davies. Tall and slender with the same dark brown hair as his mother, he possessed merry blue eyes and an easy smile. His gaze fell on Violet and held fast, much to Adelaide’s delight. Josephine fought not to roll her eyes as her stepmother beamed with pride and pushed Violet forward.
“Mrs. Burton,” he exclaimed, reaching out to take Adelaide’s hand. “What a pleasure. And surely this cannot be Miss Violet! I haven’t seen you since you were in leading strings!”
Adelaide’s chest swelled with pride as Violet simpered and did her best to look flattered. “My Violet has grown into a young woman now, my lord, and quite an accomplished one at that. She’s brilliant with watercolors, and has a most pleasing singing voice.”
His blue gaze traveled over Violet with undisguised interest. “I look forward to hearing that voice when Mother inevitably gathers us in the music room for Christmas songs.”
“I look forward to it, my lord,” Violet replied, a pink blush coming over her cheeks.
Lord Davies turned his gaze to Josephine, the friendly smile never fading. “And this must be your stepsister. Miss Brewer, is it?”
Josephine quickly recovered from the shock of his geniality, as well as the fact that he hadn’t neglected her even as her stepmother seemed to have forgotten her existence.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, my lord.”
“Violet, why don’t you tell Lord Davies about your latest painting,” Adelaide interjected before Lord Davies could engage Josephine further.
She practically shoved her daughter toward the man, then inclined her head toward a chair to indicate that Josephine should sit there and remain out of the way. Josephine did as she was bid, because the chair sat very near a footman serving tea. She accepted a cup laced with sugar and milk, as well as a scone. The scent of the sugary confection made her mouth water, and she bit into it with relish before having a sip of her tea.
She’d just finished half the scone when the dull buzz of several conversations happening at once faded to a tangle of whispers. The sudden shift in the atmosphere caused her to sit straighter in her chair, her head swiveling as she sought
the source of the disturbance. Electricity seemed to arc through the room, its inhabitants caught in its charge. The guests parted like the Red Sea, allowing Josephine a clear view of what had caused the stir. Framed by the large pillars stood a man who, at first glance, appeared almost identical to Lord Davies. He had the same long, slender build, as well as the dark hair and blue eyes shared by the countess. However, it was there the similarities between this man and the future earl ended.
Closer inspection revealed several marked differences—such as the fact that the figure encased in a dove gray frock coat and striped trousers was broader in the shoulders and chest. The exact fit of his clothes suggested a body honed by physical activity, emanating sleekness and strength. His hair was a bit longer than Lord Davies’, and the dark sideburns were absent, allowing the strong lines of an angular jaw to show to their advantage. The dark locks had been parted to one side and swept back from his face in gleaming mahogany waves.
He started into the room, his weight falling heavier on his right foot than his left, every two steps interspersed with the thud of a walking stick.
The whispers grew frenzied as word began to spread that Lieutenant Maxwell Davies, second son of the earl and countess, had just entered the room. Despite having never met any of the Davies family, Josephine was well aware of the man’s history. Adelaide had been a fount of information during the long journey to Dorset, filling both Josephine and Violet in on the gossip surrounding Lieutenant Davies. After years of trying to tame his wayward rake of a son, the earl purchased a commission for him, hoping that time spent in the British Army would strengthen his character. The young man was a soldier for only a year before England had been swept up in the short-lived Crimean War.
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